Every summer for the last three years we’ve made the drive out to the rural bends of Eastern Oklahoma County to pick blackberries at a local orchard. Every year, we get lost going. We know when we come to the turf farm we are nearly there. The road curves sharply to the north and we drive over an old truss bridge. This is not the Oklahoma I live in every day.
Sometimes, there are peaches or white nectarines to pick, too. One year, I amazed my entire family when I screamed bloody murder while picking a peach. The darn thing was covered with carcasses. More importantly, I amazed myself, because my quick retort cry was, “They were practically having a dinner party!” (The loci, that is.)
This year, we arrived around 10 a.m., and the June sun had already warmed the berries. The hotter and higher it climbed, the faster the berries ripened upon our fingertips, and sweeter grew their wine. This was B’s first year to go. She seemed to do OK.
In the first year, I didn’t eat one berry before making my purchase. This year, I ate two dozen. Sullivan kept picking them and throwing them down. “That not a good one,” he’d say. Sweet boy. He loves the sweetest blackberries!